


For A Friend

by audiaphilios



Series: From Tumblr With Lo-- [33]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Closeted Character, Clubbing, Friends to Lovers, Goalies, Kent Parson Getting Pulled Out Of A Dogpile Turns Snowy On, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 15:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9449144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audiaphilios/pseuds/audiaphilios
Summary: “Look,” he cuts in, finally. “I’m not hurt. I’m going out. I need to go out.”“I am coming with you.”Fuck, Tater, is what Snowy thinks.“Fine,” is what he says.He issofucked.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zimbits (PuppyWillGraham)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuppyWillGraham/gifts).



> @snowystater asked:  
> for a prompt, how about some snowtots: snowy overheard tater calling parse a rat (multiple times), and he figures out that he rather enjoys tater defending him?
> 
> [Originally posted to tumblr October 5, 2016.](http://audiaphilios.tumblr.com/post/151369045975/for-a-prompt-how-about-some-snowtots-snowy)

You don’t touch the goalie. It’s one of the most basic rules of hockey, and Snowy knows that. It’s not unusual for fights to break out around him because someone got too close, or too rough, and his boys have his back. There’s absolutely nothing unusual in this.

But _jesus fucking CHRIST on a red hot pogo stick_ Tater straight up heaving Kent Parson out the bottom of a fucking dogpile and shaking him like a misbehaving puppy? Getting sassy at Thirdy about his grasp of English? Snowy’s never had this kind of reaction to being defended before, but now he’s distracted enough that he doesn’t even register the ref’s announcement, hardly even cares that Parson’s dirty play cost them the game. Dealing with that’ll come later.

One of the most basic _unspoken_ rules of hockey is that you don’t perv on your teammates. 

Looks like everyone’s breaking rules tonight.

_/_X_\\_

If you’d asked Snowy as much as four hours ago, he wouldn’t have acknowledged your presence because you don’t ask stupid fucking questions like “Who’s your NHL crush?” to a goddamned elite athlete in one of the most motherfuckin’ homophobic sports on this godforsaken planet.

So he would have ignored you, but his answer, at least in his own mind, would have been obvious. Kent Parson. Snowy’s got a competency kink he’s not afraid to admit, at least in his own mind, and Kent Parson is literally a hockey god. He’s broken records that Gretzky couldn’t touch. He’s almost a pleasure to play against despite the dirty shit he pulls, even though it happens only twice a year.

Of course, the fact that it _is_  only twice a year plays into it, as well. If Kent Parson was someone he had to see more often, then he’d have trouble maintaining the pleasant fiction that decorates the back of his eyelids those nights they’re not on the road.

But Tater? Tater’s one of his favorite people in the world already, someone he sees at work and after work and all the fucking time, really. Even though he’s taken Poots under his wing, Tater’s still one of the few young, unattached guys on the team, and so of course they spend a lot of time together, both at team functions and casually. Totally casually. They’re bros who order pizza and watch shitty sci-fi B-movies on a Friday night. They play Call of Duty and go clubbing and _jesus christ_ Snowy is _so fucked_ because there’s no way he can change their regular schedule, just like he can’t change their friendship dynamic. 

_Fuck fuck FUCK_ he’s not gonna be able to help changing the dynamic, now that he’s seen that. Even avoiding his stupid fucking _reaction_ to Tater will cause his behavior to change, even slightly, and Snowy’s never been subtle, and Tater’s not a fucking idiot. Tater’s been captain since Snowy’s rookie season three years ago, and with good reason. He can read people off the ice just as well as he can read them on the ice. He doesn’t need English to be fluent in body language.

Snowy does not need to think about Tater’s knowledge of body language. Fuck, he is **so**  fucked.

_/_X_\\_ 

After the loss against the Aces, Snowy waves off the rest of the team as usual. He has a routine, on loss nights, and that requires being alone. Or, at least, not being with the team. At home, he showers again and makes sure all traces of his eyeliner are gone–he’s learned that he’s less recognizable without it, somehow. If he’s quick, he’ll be in Boston by midnight, and everyone else at the club will have enough of an alcohol haze to not care about who they’re dancing with, just that they’re dancing.

Snowy’s exhausted, but he needs this. He always needs this after a loss, but especially tonight. He knows that he’ll spend most of the drive running through everything that went wrong, and he needs to separate himself from his thoughts as much as possible. He’s never been one who could sleep things off, and so much more went wrong tonight than just a loss.

He’s just grabbed his wallet and keys when he hears the knock at the door, and frustrated, he flings it wide, only to find the bane of his present fucking existence on the other side. Tater’s standing there, looking startled that Snowy answered so quickly– and entirely too good with his fucking white button-down and _cocksucking fuckwit_ his post-game press trousers which have _got_  to be tailored and that stupid fucking gold chain glinting through the buttons that Tater always leaves undone, and how on fucking **earth**  did Snowy not realize how much he noticed about Tater already?!

He’s still standing there, hand on the edge of the door and no doubt glaring at the patch of chest hair on display. With supreme effort he wrenches his eyes closed and takes a deep breath.

“Hey, Tater.”

“ _Snegovik_. You going out?”

Another deep breath. Tater speaking Russian never used to do this to him. Tater’s taught him all the fun swears in Russian, and he never had to grip something until his knuckles turned white in order to control himself.

“Yes.”

“But is after game. Your routine…”

“This is my routine.”

There’s a pause, as Tater presumably continues to look at him, and he continues to see what colors the lights behind his eyelids turn when he varies how tight he squeezes them. He flinches when he feels a hand on his shoulder, and opens his eyes when Tater uses one of the particularly choice swears as he moves his hand away.

“Tater, what–?”

“I come to check on you, make sure you not too hurt after that–” there are words here that Snowy doesn’t recognize, but he thinks maybe that Tater’s been holding out on him with some of those swears– “Kent Parson thinks he can–” Snowy closes his eyes again, because this is precisely what he didn’t need to hear right now.

“Look,” he cuts in, finally. “I’m not hurt. I’m going out. I need to go out.”

“I am coming with you.”

_Fuck_ , Tater, is what Snowy thinks. 

“Fine,” is what he says. 

He is _**so**_  fucked.

_/_X_\\_ 

He’s not prepared for this, and he’s not in the headspace where he can convincingly improvise, so he lets muscle memory carry them all the way into Boston. Tater doesn’t speak much, and neither does he. Snowy hates how comfortable it feels, even as the tension’s ratcheting up his spine. It’s not like he wasn’t planning on thinking about this the whole way there, anyway. Every once in a while he tries to remember to loosen his grip on the steering wheel.

They pull into the parking garage a block and a half from the club, and they’re still not talking. It’s only when they’re parked, ready to get out of the car, that Snowy’s able to release a deep breath and be at least a little upfront with his captain.

“Look. I’m usually okay, but you might get recognized. And you might not want to get recognized here. You. Don’t have to come with me.”

Tater’s eyes are soft and so serious when he looks at Snowy across the center console, and Snowy forgot just how much _space_  Tater takes up.

“I go where you go, Snowman.”

Snowy turns back to the steering wheel, unclenches his hands, nods once, and gets out of the car. Together, they exit the parking garage and head towards the club. Tater’s still not asking questions, and Snowy has no idea if this is a relief or a reason to freak out. 

No turning back now, he figures. If he’s gonna be fucked, he may as well see if he can’t get fucked while he’s at it.

_/_X_\\_ 

The line is short, and the music is loud, and Snowy can feel his shoulders lowering despite his nerves. He only casts a quick glance at Tater as he tells him he’ll get their drinks, and makes a quick escape to the bar. He’s keeping an eye on the dance floor, looking for likely candidates. A few make eye contact, and as he squeezes in at the bar the guy next to him turns to him with a warm smile. He returns the appreciative gaze, and ignores the raised eyebrow he gets when he orders two drinks– vodka lemon for Tater, whiskey sour for himself. He takes a brief moment to hate himself for knowing Tater’s drink without having to ask. 

When he turns away from the bartender, the guy leans into his space, something sweet and alcoholic on his breath. 

“You know, mixing liquors is dangerous.”

“I don’t mind danger,” Snowy replies, slipping into this headspace like a warm bath. “But it’s for a friend.”

“Ooh, a friend? Or a _friend_?”

Before Snowy can shoot a look back towards where he left Tater, he feels a large hand on the back of his neck, and the hairs there rise at the gruff voice.

“Is for me.”

The guy at the bar’s expression gets snide, then falters as he turns to look up at Tater– and up, and _up_. 

“Oh,” he says, his tone entirely less cozy than it was a moment before.

“Oh,” Tater returns solemnly.

Snowy has never been more grateful for the impeccable timing of bartenders.

He reaches for their drinks, but Tater’s long arm has reached around him, between Snowy and the guy who’s now several shades paler and obviously reconsidering his place at the bar. Tater wraps Snowy’s hand around the whiskey sour, then grabs his own drink and turns towards Snowy, rotating them both to face the dance floor as he maneuvers his back to the guy at the bar. When Snowy gets a peek around Tater’s shoulder, the other man looks more than happy to be ignored.

“We drink, then dance?” Tater asks, just as solemn as before. 

Snowy can only nod, and Tater clinks their glasses together. They move away from the bar, and Snowy watches the bodies move on the dance floor as he drinks, trying not to think about how surreal this feels.

“Drink up,” Tater says a moment later, “I like this song.”

Snowy can’t _not_ think about how surreal this feels, as he downs his drink and Tater grabs his arm, hauling him out to the dance floor.

_/_X_\\_ 

An hour and a half later, neither of them have had any more to drink, but Snowy’s feeling drunk on motion and contact and the dark look in Tater’s eye. If he’d thought earlier that Tater defending him was a turn-on, he was unprepared for this. He can’t possibly be reading it right, but there’s no denying that Tater’s been fending off anyone who tries to get close to Snowy, keeping his personal space for just the two of them. Being… _possessive_. And he’s _good_  at it, which isn’t helping matters at all. 

They haven’t spoken about this, any of this, but Snowy’s okay with that for now. It’s all okay. He’s fine. He tells himself this in the bathroom mirror, trying to ignore the sounds from the last stall and the thought of what he had planned on coming here for before Tater ever showed up on his doorstep. He splashes his face with water one more time, and heads back to the dance floor.

He finds Tater leaning against a wall not far from the toilets, and he can read the exhaustion in his captain’s lines.

“Ready to go?”

“More dancing?” 

Snowy shakes his head.

“Nah, I’m all danced out. Let’s go home.”

They make their way out of the club and back to the parking garage, where Tater hip checks him in the middle of yawn and grabs his keys.

“Fuck, Tater,” he says when he’s recovered his footing. “There’s no fucking way you’ll fit behind the steering wheel, you can hardly get in the passenger seat!”

Tater gives him a smirk.

“You watch.”

Snowy does watch, and he’s impressed all over again.

“Okay, fine, you win.” Snowy settles himself into the passenger seat with less grace than he expected, more familiar with being able to brace himself against the steering wheel.

“I win, I drive. You sleep. Work hard tonight.”

It’s then that Snowy remembers they had a game, having been distracted by the dancing and the heat and the feel of Tater’s body pressed closed to his.

“Fuck, you’re right,” he says, and he can hear how tired his voice is, as if from a distance. He’s too tired to fully appreciate how smoothly Tater navigates his car out of the garage and back to the interstate. He’s asleep before they hit I-93.

_/_X_\\_ 

“You’re not alone,” he wakes up hearing. The car has stopped, and he peers blearily out the window to see that they’re parked at Snowy’s house. “You do not have to be alone.”

He’s not fully awake, so this makes no sense, and he replies, “Of course not, you’re here.”

Tater is solemn again, and nods. “Yes.”

Snowy uncurls himself from against the door, and runs his hands through his hair, as though to brush the cobwebs out of his mind. Tater hands him his keys.

“Can I stay the night?”

Snowy’s nodding before he has to think about it.

“Of course, Tater, it’s gotta be 3am. Of course you’re staying the night.”

They’re climbing out of the car when Snowy realizes Tater’s shaking his head.

“No, with you.”

“With me what?”

“Can I stay the night with you?”

Snowy drops his keys as he tries to fit them into the door. He freezes, certain that Tater doesn’t understand what he’s just asked. But the warm, newly-familiar press of Tater’s body against his suggests that he does.

“We do not have to– you do not– if you do not want–”

“No! No, I want. I want, I just– I don’t.” Snowy thumps his head against the door, ignoring the keys at his feet. “I don’t. Want to mess this up. And I can’t do one fucking night, Alexei, you’re my best fucking friend and I–”

He’s cut off by the shift of Tater’s body away from him, and he presses his head harder against the door because he’s fucked this up already. But then the warmth is back, and the soft press of lips against the back of his neck, and the sound of jangling as Tater inserts the retrieved keys into the lock.

“I am wanting you for a long time,” Tater murmurs into his skin. “Not just tonight, not just yesterday, not just tomorrow. Long time.” 

The door clicks open as Tater’s arms wrap around him, keeping him from falling face-first into the hallway, his legs weak and mind exhausted. _There’s no fucking way this is real_ , he thinks to himself, letting Tater guide him into the house and through to his bedroom. _I’m going to wake up in the morning and this will be a fever dream._

“Come on, to bed,” Tater says, and there’s no hint of any intention beyond sleep in his voice or his actions as he undresses them both. “We have long day, and long night, and long time to talk. To sleep, my best friend.”

He’s going to wake in the morning, he’s certain, and this will be a fever dream. He will have imagined the drive, and the dancing, and the feeling of Tater wrapped around him in bed, pressing soft lips and softer words into his hair.

_/_X_\\_ 

In the morning, Snowy stumbles into his kitchen to make breakfast. Tater’s still fast asleep in his bed, but he’s hoping the smell of bacon will rouse him. There’s…a lot they need to talk about. But for right now, well. He puts on the kettle and walks back to his bedroom to study the furrow of Tater’s brow that wasn’t there when Snowy woke, the reach of one long arm across the sheets.

He’s allowed to want this, he realizes, and he might just be able to have this, to keep this. A long time, he was promised, and he’s smiling as he goes to turn the stove on.


End file.
